Down and Out on Murder Mile (10 page)

 

“You got any Ritalin?”

 

“That's where I'm going now. Kid I know has ADD. But 'e doesn't react well to the Ritalin. His mum sells 'em to me.”

 

Steve gestured to a block of council flats overlooking the hospital.

 

“How much?”

 

“Three quid each.”

 

“D'you mind if we come up?”

 

Steve laughed, “More the merrier, mate. Eh—you ain't old bill are you?”

We had a laugh about that as we went up to score the pills.

 

Steve rapped on the door, and a heavy, tired-looking woman answered it. She was sucking on a cigarette. “A'right Steve,” she said, beckoning him inside. Susan and I stood about on the balcony, looking at the rows of identical front doors.

 

“You think he's on the level?” Susan asked.

 

I shrugged. I hoped so. It had been a long time since I had done anything approximating a speedball. I hadn't injected coke since leaving LA, for fear of getting into the kind of mess that I had back in the States with a coke habit. But after today, after listening to that red-nosed bastard doctor lay down the law about how much methadone I should take a day, and where I would be taking my methadone, I was in the right headspace to get good and fucked up.

I am scoring
crack in Kings Cross. It is my twenty-fourth birthday. I am playing a show tonight with Liquid Sky in Tufnell Park and I am nervous. Louis, the incompetent bastard, promised to score some cocaine for me, and of course it fell through at the last minute. He seemed utterly bemused by how pissed off I was. We have two hours following sound check before we play the show. I decide to go to the Cross and risk the street dealers in the hope of getting some rocks.

 

Wandering the street making eye contact with the various dodgy-looking people loitering by the station, I find a runner who immediately tries to bully me into buying from him. “My guy is in the motel there,” he says, nodding to one of the many horror motels that dot this neighborhood, “Gimmie the cash and I'll come back with the stuff.”

 

“I'm not a fucking tourist. I'm not buying unless I can try some first.”

 

“Nah, too many cops.”

 

He smiles at me, his gold teeth glinting with a vague kind of threat.

 

“Just gimmie the cash,”
he says as if talking to a remedial student,
“an' I'll be right back.”

 

“Forget it.”

 

As I'm walking off, he calls me back. Brings me over to his car. We get in and drive off, circling around the backstreets of the Cross. He pulls up next to a tired-looking whore lurking outside a McDonald's and she jumps in the backseat. I start to get worried that they are going to rob me. He tells her to get a pipe out, which she does, one of those little numbers fashioned out of a miniature Martell cognac bottle. He pulls over, produces a rock from his mouth, and hands it to me along with the pipe. I unwrap it and place a piece on the gauze, running the flame lightly over it to melt it into place. I take a hit, handing the pipe over as I exhale. It is, at least, real crack. As I blow the crack smoke out the dealer hisses “shit” and I look in the rearview mirror. Police are driving slowly up the street behind us. We are double-parked and the car is literally full of white smoke. He shunts the car into life and starts to drive off as casually as possible while I wrestle with the busted handle to try and wind the window down and let the smoke out.

 

Somehow, when we turn left toward Euston Road again, the cops lose interest and carry on down the street. But now I am nervous as hell and want to get out of the car as fast as possible.

 

I buy the rock we have been smoking off him and another, bundled up in plastic wrap. In my shaken state I don't take the time to check the merchandise. They drop me off at an amusement arcade on the Caledonian Road. I go into the bathroom and check the second rock. Motherfucker! I realize immediately that I have been burned. A piece of old chewing gum is all that is at the center of the bundle of plastic wrap. I am forty pounds down and I have about ten pounds' worth of crack to show for it.

 

Stepping out of the bathroom I see someone familiar through the glass front of the arcade, lurking about on the street. With a start, I realize it is Michael. I have not seen him since he threw me out of the place on White Hart Lane. He looks like shit, nervously standing on the corner, waiting for his connection to show up. I have a knife on my belt buckle, and high on that blast of crack I briefly consider sidling up to him and sticking it between his fucking ribs. But fuck it: he already got his. He's back to this tedious fucking routine, just like I am. It seems there is no escape for any of us, whether we have God and the twelve-steps on our side or not.

For the first
three months I had to attend Homerton at 9:00
A.M.
every morning (except Sundays). I would have my urine tested randomly and would have to drink my entire dose on the premises, supervised by nurses. Then, following the three-month trial period, I was allowed to take a prescription to the chemist. I still had to attend the chemist every day and drink the methadone in clear view of the pharmacist. I had to do it in a chemist more than a mile from my flat, as they were the nearest location that would allow junkies to take their methadone on-site. I learned quickly that administrative quirks like these were the things that could drive an addict to relapse—or insanity—while trying to clean up on methadone. Kids would stare at me as I'd gulp the stuff down, shaking and sick every morning. Their mothers would pull them close. They'd
whisper: “Don't stare—he's a drug addict,” if the kid's gaze rested on me for too long. The chemist, an old Indian guy called Sanjeep, used to enjoy my discomfort.

 

“You don't look so well today, my friend!” he would boom as I walked in.

All of the eyes in the shop would turn toward me as I staggered in, pale and unsteady.

“Mary!” he would yell to the old bitch in the back.

“We have another one here for methadone! Fifty milliliters of linctus please!”

 

I would smile halfheartedly. It does you no good to raise your voice or complain. That is the game they are playing. One angry word from me and he could ban me from the shop with a single phone call. Then I am back to going to the hospital every day for six months before earning the right to attend the next closest chemist who would dose me on-site. It is best to shut your mouth and act with the correct amount of subservience.

 

After I swallowed the linctus, I would return the bottle.

 

“Please to leave the shop,” he would say in mangled English, “and not to return until tomorrow. Thank you.”

 

Liquid Sky's Peel session finally aired on Radio 1. We all got together at Elektra's house and listened to it go out live. I left Susan back on Murder Mile, nodding in front of the television. We drank cheap champagne and cheered whenever one of our
songs was played. It felt like maybe things would start happening for the band now. I was convinced that after this victory record labels would start calling us with offers. But they never did. The band limped on, waiting for another break, playing gigs in half-empty pubs around North London. Performing such preprogrammed, regimented, electronic music live was a bore, though. I missed the spontaneity of my old bands. Liquid Sky's onstage routine never changed.

 

Then one night I went over to Elektra's house to work on writing some new songs. She was drunk when I showed up and insisted on pouring me a glassful of vodka. She was already messy, and I could sense that she was working her nerve up to something.

 

“I like you,” she said after an hour or so as we sat around on the floor, programming the new songs on the synthesizer. I looked over at her.

 

“Yeah…I like you too.”

 

“No but…I really like you.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

I felt my stomach turn to ice. Elektra was my age, but pretty naive. No one in the band knew about my drug use. I knew that it would be a disaster if I started something like this with her. I'd realized that half of the reason I didn't just leave Susan was that she was an insurance of sorts against my having to get emotionally involved with another
human being. For someone who didn't like being around other people, Susan was the perfect wife. Our conversations were limited to the bare essentials of our existence: where to find drugs, where to find money. There was no need for any further interaction. I didn't have to hold her, I didn't have to kiss her, I didn't have to fuck her, I didn't have to engage with her on any other level than maybe helping her find a vein when she was too sick to do it herself. But at least I didn't have to consider how alone I was, because when I walked into the apartment there she was—nodded out on the bed or sucking on a cigarette waiting for RJ to call back. Susan was my routine, and now that Elektra was threatening to disrupt it, I felt nothing but unease.

 

“I don't think this is a good idea.” I told Elektra, as nicely as possible.

 

“Why?” she said, pouting. “Don't you think I'm pretty?”

 

“Well, yeah…but you're married!”

 

She laughed. “Yeah right! That was to get into the country. I don't love him. He fucks other people. He likes screwing boys in dresses for Christ's sake!”

 

“Well…I'm married,” I bleated.

 

“And you love her?”

 

I didn't answer. That lie would have been too preposterous, even for me.

 

“That's what I thought. It's funny how I've never seen you together. Do you keep her in a box?”

 

Elektra stood up and said, “I'm going to go freshen up.” And then she walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

 

Fuck! Shit, fuck!

 

As she lingered in the bathroom, my mind whirled. I hadn't had sex in a long, long time. The heroin had killed any urge I once had to fuck. The last time I did it was before Susan and I even got married. With a heroin and crack habit, there was no time for the luxury of having a sex life. I absently wondered if my prick still worked properly. There was something appealing, yet terrifying, about the thought of having sex with Elektra.

 

But no, it couldn't work. Elektra was a problem because I would have to see her the next day. And the next. And the next. And it would either be incredibly uncomfortable because we'd both regret it the next day or, even worse, she would want us to form some kind of relationship, which was absolutely out of the question. I had too much to hide. Too much that had to remain private.

 

I needed a shot.

 

I had a methadone ampoule in my jacket pocket and a new syringe. I went over to the coat rack and retrieved them, stuffing them into my pockets.
The bathroom door opened and Elektra stepped out. Before she could say anything I said, “You mind if I go in there for a moment?” and she nodded me through. I closed the door behind me and stood there for a moment, listening to her walk away into the living room again.

 

For a minute there was peace. The bathroom was cool and quiet. In the other room I could hear indistinct music playing. I sat down on the toilet, pulling the belt off of my jeans and tossing it onto the floor. I retrieved the needle and the ampoule, snapping the glass neck off the top of the little bottle and sliding the spike into it. I drew up fifty milliliters of clear liquid. Then I had a brain wave.

 

I had a Ritalin tablet stored away in my jeans. Genius! I squirted the methadone back into the ampoule and retrieved the tablet. I looked around the bathroom for something suitable. There was a glass tumbler by the toothbrushes, so I dried it off with toilet paper and wiped down an area of the tiled floor. I placed the pill on the floor and used the bottom of the glass like a mortar and pestle to crush the pill up into rough white powder. Then I used an old underground ticket to scoop up the powder and dump it into the cup. I sucked up the methadone once more and squirted it into the cup, swirling the solution until it turned thick and creamy.

 

This was a dangerous practice. Shooting pills can really fuck up your veins and cause all kinds of nasty medical problems. Normally I would take the time to filter and refilter the solution,
but I realized that I was taking a long time in the bathroom, so after a quick swirl with the plunger of the syringe, I sucked the creamy, lumpy solution up, clasped the needle between my teeth, and started wrapping my belt around my upper arm.

 

I went in by the side of my forearm. I slid in the needle in and poked around under the skin, drilling for blood. There was nothing, but when I withdrew the needle a great glob of crimson bubbled out of my arm and started running toward my wrist. I wiped the blood with my hand, smearing it all over myself in an attempt to stop it from dripping on the floor. Then, flexing again, I pointed my clenched fist toward the floor in an attempt to increase the blood flow and inserted the needle into my wrist.

 

This was a tricky operation. Shooting anywhere around the tendons is a problem because if the needle accidentally sticks one you know about it. An explosion of pain and even the loss of sensation in one or more of your fingers for an anxious half hour can result. But there are a lot of decent veins hiding there, just under the surface. A thin strip of blood shot into the barrel, turning the solution pink, and I started to feed it in slowly, but the needle immediately jammed.

“Fuck!” I hissed. This was the problem with injecting inadequately filtered crushed tablets. I pulled the needle out and more blood gushed from the wrist, this time splashing the floor. I had blood all over my hands and my forearm now, and a little pool of it at my feet. I slid the needle in the same spot again, knowing that if I didn't get
the hit straight away now the needle would clog and the entire shot would be wasted.

 

I said a silent prayer to the God of junkies, and by divine intervention, a plume of scarlet flooded the barrel and I started depressing the plunger and feeding the shot into my vein. I was so caught up in the process that I didn't even hear the bathroom door open. The Ritalin and methadone hit my bloodstream and almost exactly on cue Elektra screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?!?”

 

I looked up and saw her standing there wearing just a T-shirt. I sat stupefied by the sight of her bare legs, the tuft of pubic hair sticking out from under the shirt, and the look of horror on her face, before I jumped up, with the needle still hanging out of my wrist, and yelled,
“Close the door!”
She slammed it closed, and I was alone once more. I put the cap back on the needle and stashed it, gathering up my things, looping the belt back into my jeans, and cleaning up the blood with a thick wad of wet toilet paper. All the while the blood was roaring in my ears from the shot and my vision kept blurring in and out.

 

“What kind of person doesn't have a lock on their bathroom door, anyway?”
I thought bitterly, flushing the toilet and straightening myself up in the mirror. When I left the bathroom, Elektra had pulled on a pair of tights to cover herself a little and was sitting on the couch, shakily drinking another vodka. I popped my head in and said: “Look, I'm sorry. You really didn't know?”

 

She looked up and shook her head.

 

“Well, I'm sorry you had to see that. I'd better go. I'll call you tomorrow.”

 

She nodded. She looked completely freaked out by what she had just witnessed in her bathroom. I grabbed my coat and got the fuck out of there.